


A Bad Year

by Anduriel



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Altered Mental States, Angst, Bathing/Washing, Canon-Typical Violence, Cock Warming, Coming Untouched, Dissociation, Dom/sub Undertones, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff and Angst, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Whump, Grief/Mourning, Guilt, Healthy Relationships, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Intimacy, M/M, Minor Aiden/Lambert (The Witcher), Multiple Orgasms, No Daddy Kink, Oral Sex, Panic Attacks, Porn With Plot, Praise Kink, Protective Vesemir (The Witcher), Safewords, Service top vesemir, Shame, Slow Build, Touch-Starved, Trans Male Character, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Whipping, Whump, trans Lambert
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-05
Updated: 2020-08-26
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:48:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25737532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anduriel/pseuds/Anduriel
Summary: Vesemir retreats back to Kaer Morhen early after a terrible season on the Path. Slowly, his wolves trickle in one by one, and he learns that he wasn't the only one who had a bad year.Right when things seem they couldn't get worse, a cult of witcher-killers has invaded their sanctuary, threatening the last surviving Wolf Witchers.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Vesemir, Lambert & Vesemir (The Witcher)
Comments: 25
Kudos: 65





	1. The Dead Cat

**Author's Note:**

> In this fic, Lambert is a trans man. His genitals are referred to as: cock, dick, folds, heat, and hole (I think that's all of them). Let me know if I missed a tag or you'd like something specific tagged.

It was a bad year. Vesemir could smell it on the wind like a rotting battlefield. Contracts had been shit for him all summer. Shit contracts and even shittier people. The humans of the continent seemed surlier and more miserable than ever this year, and perfectly ready to take out their frustrations on a humble witcher. Things had been so bad in fact, that Vesemir had decided to head back to Kaer Morhen early, not waiting for the fall air to turn cold. Wouldn’t make any difference; there would be no coin to be made this year on the Path.

Upon reaching the old keep, Vesemir had immediately clomped down into the cellar to dig out their reserves and start taking inventory. He had a feeling they’d all need it this year, if the other wolves had had anything close to his luck. He spent the first two days counting and checking to see how much of the emergency rations had kept, satisfied when he only had to throw one barrel of moldy—sauerkraut? Pemmican?—to the drowners.

Satisfied with their rations, Vesemir spent the next two months mostly on repairs, as usual. It was a never ending battle, and a losing one. The keep crumbled faster than he could mix cement. Sometimes it felt like trying to patch a ship that kept springing leaks, and Vesemir was out of hands to block the spray. Even when his wolves returned and helped him, it would never be enough. Vesemir knew this. But Vesemir had been fighting futile battles his entire life; he didn’t know how to do anything else.

Luckily, there were other things to keep his focus besides the eternal repairs. At the first hint of a cold bite on the air, Vesemir prepared for the pack to return. Bad years happened, and while he hoped the other wolves had done better than he had, he had to make sure he was prepared for his instincts to be right. He checked their stock of medical supplies and squirreled small stashes in various parts of the keep for easy access if necessary. He also gave each of the boys' rooms a cursory once over, shaking out the dust from their bedding and cleaning out the hearths. He didn’t disturb anything, didn’t rearrange or get too thorough in his cleaning. He knew how important these spaces were to them. The only physical place that felt like theirs. The closest thing they had to a home.

Vesemir cleaned the kitchen and the baths. He set up some fresh dummies and targets if any of the wolves needed to quickly blow off some steam upon their arrival. And of course, he brewed some alcohol. Most was for potions and medicinal needs, but he added a little flavor to a few of the bottles. Sometimes the only cure for ailments of the soul was to bury it under the thick veneer of intoxication. He would make the expected fuss about over drinking, but the truth was that he understood.

***

The sun was high in the sky and Vesemir had just been considering taking a break from his repairs to have some lunch when he heard the telltale footsteps of someone approaching the keep. His heart leapt. He didn’t care which of the wolves it was; he missed them all. He climbed down from the scaffolding but barely had time to brush the dust from his leather jerkin when Lambert stormed into the courtyard.

It was instantly apparent that something was wrong. Lambert was horseless, Vesemir noted, and whipped up into a temper worse than an angry archgriffin.

“Lambert?” Vesemir questioned the youngest of the wolves, and only got a snarl in response. Lambert stomped past him, beelining toward the sparing arena, and immediately tore into one of the practice dummies with his steel blade.

Seemed Vesemir's instincts had been spot on, at least in Lambert’s case.

Vesemir didn’t approach any closer as Lambert hammered his sword against the practice dummy, beating the thing to a pulpy mess of hay and burlap. Instead, Vesemir leaned against a low wall nearby, crossing his arms and waiting. While it wasn’t atypical for Lambert to be keyed up upon returning, this was definitely something out of the ordinary. Lambert wasn’t just angry—he was hurt. Not physically, perhaps. Vesemir didn’t smell any blood on him that wasn’t old monster blood. No, whatever was affecting Lambert was a deeper wound. Something had happened. Something his body and mind only knew to treat with explosive anger.

After several minutes of beating the shit out of the dummy, Lambert finally paused, panting over the hacked up remains. Only then did Vesemir speak. “Might as well have used a bat with all the finesse you had there.”

The jab had the intended effect of turning Lambert’s (admittedly furious) focus on him. Lambert’s shoulders became a steel rod of anger, his body shaking with fury as he turned on Vesemir, lips pulled back in a snarl as he spat, “FUCK you, old man! I don’t need your shit fucking teachings right now!”

Vesemir didn’t move, didn’t respond. Just continued to watch Lambert throw his tantrum, the old insults rolling off.

Lambert stabbed his sword down into the dirt, face flushed, dust and grime clinging to his hair and his armor. “How do you even live with yourself, forcing us all to come back here year after fucking year!?” he shouted, pupils blown wide with adrenaline and fury. “You know we all hate it! We fucking hate this place and yet you guilt us every winter into returning and picking up pieces of a place that should have never EXISTED to begin with!”

Vesemir straightened, letting his arms fall to his sides, his brow furrowed. Lambert was losing his composure quicker than he usually did. Normally, he’d sling some vitriol at Vesemir and then storm off, leaving them to talk rationally later once he’d cooled down. Or not talk, and pretend nothing had happened. Now, though, the lines of rage in Lambert’s face were rapidly breaking, tilting up in desperation. In sorrow.

“You know, maybe if you didn’t make us come back here,” he powered on, taking a wavering step closer, “we’d actually have a fucking chance to find a real home! A real home with real people who made us happy—!” Lambert’s tirade cut off with a sudden sob that took both witchers by surprise.

Oh, this was very, very bad.

Vesemir closed the distance between them as Lambert crumpled in on himself, wrapping his arms around the younger man as they both dropped to their knees. “Easy, pup,” Vesemir murmured.

“They killed him,” Lambert whined, shoulders slumping, all the fight leaving him as his forehead thumped onto Vesemir’s shoulder. “They killed him, Vesemir. He couldn’t even fight it; they stabbed him in the back, and I—"

“Killed who, Lambert?” Vesemir asked, clutching Lambert a little tighter. One of the other wolves? No, gods, please not one of his…

“Aiden,” Lambert answered, the name releasing another bitter sob.

Vesemir hated the instant of relief he felt. He quickly thanked the gods it wasn’t one of his dwindling pack, but knew that wouldn’t help Lambert feel any better. Because he did recognize the name. Aiden was that Cat witcher Lambert had been prattling on about like a schoolgirl with a crush for nearly four winters now. When Lambert had first spoken about Aiden, Vesemir had warned caution. The Cat School couldn’t be trusted (which had led to a fight all on its own), but after the next year it became clear that this Aiden was one of the good ones. At least good enough for Lambert’s standards, and while they might tease him, if the man was good enough for Lambert Vesemir would have trusted his assessment.

In fact, Vesemir recalled that Lambert had planned on offering to let Aiden winter at Kaer Morhen this very season.

Vesemir let out a heavy sigh and just held Lambert tighter as the man's shoulders shook with dry sobs. Their eyes didn’t produce extra tears after all the mutations, but Lambert's body sure remembered how to cry anyway.

“I’ll _kill_ them!” Lambert snarled, voice thick with emotion. “I’ll track them down and _slaughter_ every last one of them!” His fist pounded weakly against Vesemir's chest as he said it, as if it could drive away the feelings eating him up.

Vesemir knew this grief; knew it well, in fact. He felt it whenever he thought of his dead brethren, slaughtered right there in the keep. There were times he could still smell the blood in the dirt, and it made the tired old rage bubble back up with helpless insistence.

But talking about that wouldn’t help Lambert either. His most spirited and confrontational pup was also the most sensitive. His heart was the most vulnerable, easy to turn bitter and closed off for fear of further harm.

“I’ll do it,” Lambert continued, slurring the words into Vesemir’s shoulder. “I’ll fucking do it. I’ll kill them all. Aiden deserves that much, he—I—"

“I know, pup. I know,” Vesemir murmured, shushing Lambert as gently as he could. He rubbed his hand up and down the man’s back, and Lambert gradually slumped against him as limply as a sack of potatoes.

When Lambert shyly tipped his head toward Vesemir’s neck to bury his nose into the exposed skin there, Vesemir knew it was time to act. They hadn’t done this in a long time, but Vesemir still knew the signs, knew the steps like an old alchemy diagram. “Will you let me take care of you?” he asked softly.

Lambert only nodded, his hands coming up and clutching needily into the front of Vesemir’s jerkin.

“Good, good boy,” Vesemir murmured back, and his heart clenched when Lambert whined pitifully. His sensitive, affection-starved boy. They all were, really. “Come on then, let’s get you clean first.”

Vesemir tried to urge Lambert to stand, only for the man to give another quiet whine. “I’ll carry you?” Vesemir questioned, just to be sure.

When Lambert nodded again, Vesemir valiantly ignored the creak in his knees as he hauled the man up, holding him to his front like a small child. Like he used to when Lambert really had been just a child.

_Fencing teacher second, mother hen first…_

Vesemir flinched at the memory of the lighthearted teasing from his old friends. Old friends who were all long dead now. Strange how the good memories were always the most painful ones. He was sure Lambert would learn that now, too.

As Vesemir carried Lambert through the keep, heading toward the baths, he wondered if Aiden was the first person Lambert had lost that he truly cared about. Sure, the sacking of Kaer Morhen had been a sorrowful time for all of them, but it wasn’t a secret how much Lambert had despised most of the old witchers. And he of course felt the sting of the loss of his mother, but that was an old wound, and not the same as losing a lover to violence. If Lambert had any other special people in his life, he’d kept quiet about it. Judging from his reaction alone, Vesemir felt strongly that this was a new experience for the pup, and like all new experiences he would have to learn to live with it.

Vesemir couldn’t take that pain away, but he could certainly help guide and comfort him through the process. For as long as Lambert would let him, anyway. 

The bathhouse at Kaer Morhen wasn’t huge or lavish, but it was certainly everyone’s favorite feature. It seemed to be the only room the other wolves truly worked at to keep in perfect condition. The white pine walls were pristine, the stone floor with its sunken baths were perfectly scrubbed and smooth, and the entire room smelled of evergreen and clear mountain spring water.

Vesemir cast Igni at the heater with hardly a second thought. He wished he’d already had it heating, but the time it took to get Lambert out of his armor should give it enough time to get warm enough.

Lambert listed a little as Vesemir carefully deposited him onto a stone bench. His eyes were almost closed, head bowed and shoulders slumped. He looked like an empty shell of himself, and Vesemir’s heart ached seeing it. He'd take a thousand insults from Lambert if he never had to see him like this again. Vesemir ran a gentle hand through the man's close cut hair, dirt sprinkling onto the stone floor, and noticed how shaggy it had gotten. “Let’s get you clean,” he said, and Lambert just gave a small nod.

Vesemir knelt down to a knee and began the process of divesting Lambert of his armor and clothes. There was no shame about it or awkwardness; nudity didn’t bother any of them. He cupped his hand around the heel of Lambert's boots, sliding each one off and releasing a truly impressive stench.

“Where did your stockings go, pup?” Vesemir questioned lightly, not really expecting a response. He got a small shrug, which was fine. Setting the boots aside, he moved up to the various buckles and clasps of Lambert’s chest armor, removing the tall pauldrons and unlacing the armored leather jacket with its stylish collar. He slid the jacket from Lambert’s limp arms, setting it aside as well. Next came the leather trousers, which Vesemir had to loop his arms under the man's armpits and lift him up to get them completely off.

The more he revealed, the more he smelled the acrid scent of sweat and salt and copper. He didn’t know how long it had been since Lambert had lost Aiden, but it was clear the man hadn’t taken care of himself since. Not only was he filthy, but bruises and cuts littered his body. Nothing life threatening, but evidence of reckless behavior. Vesemir didn’t chastise, not yet. Lambert was in an extremely vulnerable place, and Vesemir knew any criticism or even the wrong kind of concern could wound him deeply right now.

“I’ll clean you and then see to those cuts, pup,” Vesemir said, gentling his voice as best as he knew how. Lambert nodded. Vesemir pulled the laces of the man’s undershirt loose, continuing, “Your hair is a little long too. Would you like me to cut it for you?” Another nod, and Vesemir smiled, giving Lambert a gentle caress on the cheek. “Good boy,” he murmured, and felt another of those heart twinges when Lambert whined and pressed his face into Vesemir's touch. “That’s it, pup. I’ve got you. Arms up, now.” He pulled the undershirt up over Lambert's head, revealing the strips of yellowing bandages Lambert used to bind his chest.

Vesemir held himself back from clucking his tongue in disapproval. He wanted to know the last time Lambert had unbound his chest, but didn’t ask. Too long, was the answer. He made a mental note to check the boy's ribs for any damage after the bath. As it was, he carefully unwrapped the bindings, the cotton crackling where dried blood and sweat had hardened bits of it. The strip of cotton was unsalvageable, but Vesemir put it with the rest of Lambert's gear with as much respect as he had with the rest.

Chest bare now, Vesemir could see the little puffy bits of fat that still stubbornly clung to Lambert’s pectoral muscles. He frowned at the dark bruises splotched over his skin, but set to gently removing Lambert’s last bit of underclothes without comment.

As the dirty underclothes came off, Lambert's not so secret secret was fully revealed. Vesemir had seen him bare plenty of times, and every time he recalled when he had been tasked with inspecting the boy upon his arrival at Kaer Morhen. They checked all of the children that came to them back then, looking for disease or disfigurement. He’d thought at the time that they’d have to send him back. The anatomy was one he usually associated with girls, and it was well known that girls couldn’t handle the trials.

Personally, Vesemir had always suspected that ‘fact’ to be more a matter of tradition and custom (if not complete and utter bullshit) than actual scientific principle. Regardless, when he’d commented to Lambert at the time with, “Girls can’t take part in the trials,” Lambert had given him a look like he had two heads and answered plainly, “I’m not a girl.” So, Vesemir had continued his inspection, if nothing but for posterity, and it was then he saw the clear evidence of exactly what Lambert’s father had been doing to him.

The guilt and uncertainty of his next decision still haunted him. Unwilling to let the child go back to such a monster, he’d lied in his inspection notes and let the trials commence. It came out afterwards that Lambert didn’t have the usual body setup of most boys, but it didn’t matter. He’d passed the trial, so the other witchers couldn’t throw him out.

Vesemir knew now that Lambert resented him for that choice, not necessarily for the choice itself, but because no one (including Vesemir) had thought to ask Lambert himself what he wanted. The boy, like so many others, had been robbed of is autonomy, shoved into the life of a witcher without a second thought. His bitterness and anger was justified, and while Vesemir didn’t regret the choice he’d made, he also didn’t begrudge Lambert his anger. All he could do was try to make it up to him now. Now that they were all they had left.

Bare, Vesemir reached up again to stroke Lambert's cheek. “Ok, bath is nearly warm. Want me naked with you, or stay clothed?”

Nudity may not be an issue, but Lambert was in a different mental space now, and Vesemir had to respect that. Lambert didn’t look at him, just leaned his face into the touch and weakly tugged on the collar of Vesemir’s jerkin.

Vesemir nodded. “Ok, give me just a minute to undress. Remember you can change your mind at any time, just have to tell me, pup.”

Lambert didn’t respond in any way to that, and Vesemir didn’t expect him to. He pulled his own light armor and clothes off with quick but not rushed efficiency. He had to show confidence without appearing overly eager. It had taken a few failures for Vesemir to map all the twists and dead-ends of Lambert's mind. Vesemir didn’t claim to understand the intricacies of the psyche, but he’d learned the things that opened Lambert up versus the things that shut him down. It was a tenuous trust, one built over years of taking care of Lambert like this. The undercurrent to their near-constant arguing.

When he was naked as well, he knelt back in front of Lambert, cupping his cheek again. “Got to get you into the bath. You ready?”

Lambert nodded.

“Carry you?”

Another nod.

Vesemir hugged his arms around Lambert’s middle again. He felt Lambert dig his nose into the skin at his neck, the boy clamping his arms and legs around him like a bear cub. Vesemir kept him hoisted up with a firm grip on his torso and one thigh, careful where he placed his hands. Lambert might want that type of attention from him at some point, but now was not the time.

Vesemir climbed into the bath, walking down the carved stone steps and settling into one side with Lambert still in his lap. The water was warm, not hot yet, but that was fine. Lambert seemed to appreciate it with the way his body melted against Vesemir's. The younger man’s arms draped around Vesemir’s neck, cheek resting on his shoulder, little puffs of breath tickling Vesemir's neck.

Like this, he could feel every tense muscle and even feel the beat of Lambert's heart. Vesemir picked up on a slight tension, a shakiness to his breath. “Easy, pup,” he said, soft but firm. “All you need to do right now is match my breathing.”

That did it. Lambert let out a long sigh before he matched his breathing to Vesemir’s. The old witcher closed his eyes and let them sit there, going into a half meditative state as the water continued to heat.

When steam had filled the bathhouse and Vesemir felt the slight shift in Lambert’s hips that signaled some discomfort, he carefully brought one hand up and rubbed his palm in broad strokes over the man's back. Gritty dirt turned to mud across his skin, but Vesemir continued until he was sure Lambert was mostly back in his head.

He then moved them so Lambert was sitting cross-legged in the shallower end of the bath, shushing him softly when he whined at the loss of physical contact. Quickly retrieving a rag, a bar of soap, and a wooden cup, Vesemir set to work slowly and carefully cleaning Lambert's body. Lambert was like a limp doll, moving his arms and limbs when asked, his eyes downcast. Vesemir hated to see him like this, so doubled his efforts to bring him as much comfort as he could. He slowed his breathing, keeping it regular for Lambert to follow. He cleaned him quietly, getting every inch of his skin, spending equal amounts of time on every part of Lambert’s body.

That was one thing that had been hard to figure out, but easy to incorporate when he finally realized why Lambert would start whining and randomly cleaning parts of his body after Vesemir had thought they were done. He mentally counted the number of strokes of the soapy rag for each arm, each hand, each finger, making sure to keep the pressure consistent for every part. He didn’t know why it worked or why it was so important to Lambert, but he didn’t mind doing it. And the results were undeniable. Once Vesemir had cleaned every inch of the man, Lambert seemed to be back in a meditative state, his mannerisms less of a limp doll and more of a patient on some stiff pain medicine. Floating. That’s how he'd described it one of the few times Vesemir had managed to get him to talk about it outside of these moments.

The only reaction Lambert gave besides a few small sighs was when Vesemir reached down to clean between his legs. The intake of breath was quick and quiet, but it was as loud as glass shattering to Vesemir with how tuned into Lambert he was. He paused, looking to Lambert's impassive face, and could just detect the tension in his brow that signaled pain.

Seemed Lambert had gone back to some bad habits in the wake of his grief. Not surprising, but it still made Vesemir's gut clench with sympathy for the boy. He kept his expression controlled and his breathing regular as he gently cleaned Lambert's genitals, keeping his touch clinical and counting the passes of the cloth as he had done with the rest of his body. Any stronger reaction could send Lambert down a spiral of shame, ruining the floating peace Vesemir had worked so hard to help him get to. There was time later for difficult conversations.

The hair was next, and after retrieving his scissors, Vesemir took the same amount of time and care with Lambert's wiry black hair as he had on his body. He clipped it short, the way Lambert liked it, off his ears and out of his face. He then soaped his hair up, massaging his scalp with sure, strong fingers.

Lambert groaned at that, leaning his back into Vesemir's chest. Affection bloomed in Vesemir's heart as Lambert relaxed against him. They fought so much, but this trust was something he never forgot about. Lambert might hate him, or hate what he represented, but when it came down to it they could count on each other.

Vesemir used a small wooden cup to rinse Lambert's hair, the flowing spring water taking away all the dirt, soap, and hair clippings. He held his hand over Lambert's eyes to protect them from any errant suds, just like when he was a boy.

Washed and trimmed, Lambert looked significantly better than when he’d arrived, but Vesemir knew the sorrow and anger could still come roaring back. He wanted to give Lambert as much time as he could in this peaceful head space, which is why he didn’t immediately move on to cleaning any wounds Lambert had. He let them sit and soak, the clean, simple smell of the goatmilk soap banishing any lingering blood and sweat.

Vesemir pulled out of the reverie when Lambert made a small, needy sound. It was soft and almost animalistic. The man was deep in whatever place in his mind he went to during these times, and Vesemir knew no one else saw this part of Lambert.

Well… maybe Aiden had. That thought made Vesemir’s poor heart stutter, his stomach clenching even tighter. To think that his cherished boy had finally found someone to trust enough to show this side of himself to, and now he was gone… it was almost too much to bear.

Vesemir murmured softly, more to just make his chest vibrate for Lambert as he ran his callused hands up and down his sides. “Good boy, that’s good, sitting here so peaceful for me. You don’t need to do anything else, just let me care for you.”

Lambert whimpered softly, curling into Vesemir, shifting so he could put his nose back against Vesemir’s neck, the place he seemed to like keeping it. The older witcher pressed his mouth and nose into Lambert’s newly trimmed and washed hair, continuing to murmur his small comforts, breathing Lambert’s scent.

After a time, Vesemir continued to find the same small cuts and inflamed blisters, and gently pressed his lips to the top of Lambert’s head in a chaste kiss. “Need to take care of your wounds, pup,” he murmured. “Got to take you out of the bath, are you ready?”

Lambert gave a half-hearted whine, but wrapped his arms around Vesemir’s neck, resigned to Vesemir’s decision. Vesemir gathered him up, getting his legs under him again before he lifted Lambert, the water draining off of them in rivulets. “Good boy. Very good,” Vesemir murmured as he carefully stepped out of the bath. “You’re safe here, you’re safe with me.” He placed Lambert back on the stone bench and quickly retrieved the stash of medical supplies, murmuring soft comforts in response to Lambert’s needy whine.

Vesemir took the same amount of time and care to attend to Lambert’s wounds, pausing as much as he needed to comfort him. They weren’t serious, and Lambert’s mutations would heal him in a matter of days, if not hours, but any discomfort Vesemir could take away, he would. The only place he avoided was Lambert's genitals, unsure if the man would want him to see, and he didn’t want to press his luck with Lambert so relaxed now.

By the time he got to Lambert’s feet, Lambert was whining and rubbing himself against as much of Vesemir as he could reach. Vesemir let him do what he wanted, determined to care for every bit of his boy. When he was satisfied that Lambert’s wounds were dressed, he looked up, now on his knees, and cupped Lambert’s face. “Do you want more?”

Lambert quickly nodded, panting softly, his arms crossing over his stomach in an insecure gesture.

That wouldn’t do. Vesemir gathered Lambert back up in his arms, hugging him close. “Get you dry, dry and warm, not going to take care of you like that on a hard stone floor.” He continued to murmur as he lifted Lambert, grabbing a nearby towel and wrapping it haphazardly around Lambert’s naked form. He left the armor for the time being; he could pick it up once Lambert was taken care of.

Vesemir walked them through the keep, his bare feet padding on the cool floor, heading toward Lambert’s room. Once there, Vesemir cast another Igni at the hearth, already feeling Lambert shivering in the cool air. He murmured soft comforts to him as he quickly lay down with him in the bed, throwing the blankets over their naked bodies.

Lambert snuggled into him, nuzzling his face into Vesemir’s neck. “Shh, easy pup,” Vesemir rumbled, carefully rolling Lambert onto his back, hovering over him, his weight on one elbow. He ran his callused hand down Lambert’s sternum to his stomach, brushing the dark hair over his navel. “My fingers?” Vesemir asked, barely over a whisper.

Lambert nodded again, tipping his head to the side to give Vesemir access to his neck. “Anything…” he whispered.

Vesemir’s heart jumped at the single word answer. It was a good sign for Lambert to be talking, even just the one word. Vesemir wanted him to be an active participant; he wouldn’t do this if Lambert weren’t at least a little bit present.

Lambert gasped before biting his bottom lip between his teeth as Vesemir's fingertips ventured lower. Vesemir nosed at Lambert's jaw as he slid his thick fingers around the small, stiff nub of Lambert's cock, slowly raising and lowering his fingers to carefully jack him off with the fragile outer skin.

Lambert whined and squirmed, still chewing his lip, eyes mostly closed with his brow furrowed. Altogether too worked up.

“Shh, I’ve got you, pup. Don’t hold back, it’s ok,” Vesemir murmured into Lambert’s ear as he slowly circled his fingers over the top of the man's dick. Lambert’s mouth opened wide, his hands clawing at Vesemir's arm. The older witcher scooted up so he lay parallel to Lambert, cradling his head under his free arm. “No need to concern yourself with anything. Let me take care of you, that’s a good boy.”

The words seemed to melt Lambert. He let out a breath, brow smoothing, his eyes turning to chips of molten amber. He mouth hung open as he panted softly, nodding and nuzzling back into Vesemir’s neck.

Vesemir tucked the boy’s head under his chin as he worked him over with his fingers, reading every gasp, every sigh, every twitch of his precious boy’s body. He alternated between using the man's foreskin to jack him and rubbing broad, firm circles. Lambert was soaked in no time, so much that Vesemir was sure there would be a puddle on the bed. He didn’t enter him though; that was not part of the recipe. Lambert rarely wanted that, which was more than fine with Vesemir. He gradually increased his pace and pressure, winding Lambert up until his breathy moans and whines were high pitched and loud.

“C-close, _nnngh_ , can I?” Lambert gasped.

“Yes,” Vesemir answered immediately, then watched in quiet awe as Lambert came undone. He cried out, chest arching up, his thighs first clamping around Vesemir's hand and then splitting open to let him continue his small, quick circles, pulling out as much pleasure as he could.

When his hips rested back down on the bed, Vesemir gave him one last stroke before his hand moved to lay over Lambert's belly. He watched, charmed, as the boy caught his breath, a little bit of drool dripping from the corner of his open mouth.

Only when Lambert turned his face toward his neck again and started those little whines did Vesemir ask softly, “My mouth?”

The eager nod he got in response brought a smile to his face. Vesemir gave Lambert a kiss on his forehead before he slid down the bed and situated himself between Lambert's thighs.

As soon as he had the vantage point, Vesemir fully saw the damage and clear evidence that Lambert had fallen back on some old habits. His inner thighs and the folds around his hole were bruised and battered. With his witcher healing, Lambert shouldn’t have shown all those marks, which meant he’d been taken hard, too hard, and _recently._ Lambert was throwing his body at anyone and everyone who would fuck him, the harder and meaner the better.

Vesemir didn’t school his expression fast enough, and cursed himself when he felt Lambert’s body draw up tight like a loaded crossbow. “Sorry, ‘m sorry!” Lambert whimpered, voice bare and broken like a child afraid of a whipping. “Don’t be angry, please, I’ll be good, I’ll suck you, o-or you can fuck whichever hole…”

“Easy, _easy_ , pup,” Vesemir shushed him, crawling back up to lay his body over Lambert's shivering form, weighing him down and anchoring him. Lambert clung onto him, his fretful whines interspersed with hiccupping sobs. Vesemir pet his cropped hair, cradling him close. “No need for that, I’m not angry, you’re safe, remember?”

Lambert trembled and shook his head, “Hurts… hurts…”

Vesemir continued to speak gentle words of comfort, unsure if Lambert meant he hurt physically or emotionally; most likely it was both.

It was times like this that Vesemir actually appreciated his age and the effects it had on his body. Namely, he was glad an awkward erection wasn’t busy poking Lambert in the hip. He didn’t want to put undue pressure on his boy.

After a few minutes of gentle assurances and petting, Lambert was nearly back to the calm Vesemir had had him. The man sniffed a bit before he mumbled morosely, “Do we have to stop now?”

Vesemir took a slow breath, remembering how he’d had to limit Lambert's sexual advances in the past. Lambert first propositioned him when he was barely out of boyhood, and Vesemir had put a hard stop on all of their comfort activities, worried he’d given the boy the wrong idea. It had… not gone over well. But eventually Lambert matured a bit more and there came a time when he’d actually (in his own way) thanked Vesemir for his refusal. After that, they’d cautiously explored adding more intimacy to their comfort ritual, but even then, Vesemir had gently refused him when he felt Lambert wasn’t in the right mind or when Lambert had a panic.

Vesemir stroked his callused hand over Lambert’s cropped hair. He wanted to give this to Lambert; could tell the man needed some tenderness. “Do you want to stop?” he asked, carefully keeping any judgement out of his voice.

Lambert dug his face harder into Vesemir's neck, not unlike a needy cat. “Want it,” he mumbled.

“You can say no. I won’t go anywhere,” Vesemir assured him. “I can still spoil you without that.”

Lambert squirmed, uncomfortable with having to make any decisions. He tried to snake a hand down to grope at Vesemir’s still safely soft cock, but Vesemir gently pulled his hand back, intertwining their fingers. The old witcher withheld a chuckle at Lambert’s petulant huff. “Want it, please?” Lambert tried.

Vesemir let out an amused breath, nodding. “Ok. But you can say no at any time. There will be no repercussions.”

Lambert’s hips jerked up eagerly as Vesemir slid back down, and this time he very carefully ignored the state of Lambert’s genitals.

Lambert smelled of soap and a slightly sour scent that always reminded Vesemir of orange rind. He gently cradled Lambert’s thighs, lowering his head toward Lambert’s folds. He kept his gaze on the man’s face, watching for troubled waters, before he carefully pressed his mouth against Lambert’s heat.

The man gasped, his head tipping back as Vesemir slowly lathed his tongue over his hole and up across his dick. The outer folds were cool to the touch, but Lambert’s cock and inner parts felt as hot as a forge. Vesemir’s hands moved up to hold Lambert’s hips, but when the boy froze and his brow twitched, Vesemir moved his hands further, gently grasping Lambert’s waist. Meant he wouldn’t have as much control over Lambert's squirming, but that was alright; Vesemir liked to feel Lambert respond to his touches.

The old witcher spent the next long minutes thoroughly indulging his boy. He took his time, enjoying himself as much as Lambert enjoyed the attention. Vesemir pressed his mouth over Lambert’s mound, encompassing all of him in the warmth his mouth provided as he swirled his tongue all over his cock and folds. He tended to his outer lips, lapping over the coarse black hair, soothing the aches he knew were there. He sucked Lambert’s erect cock into his mouth, watching as the man shivered and writhed, his thighs shaking around Vesemir’s ears. Vesemir flicked his tongue over the tip, watching Lambert twitch with every swipe.

Vesemir lifted his mouth just enough to breath out, “Can you come for me?”

Lambert whined and nodded, eyes rolling back as Vesemir sucked his cock back into his mouth, tongue rapidly swirling over the tip, dragging Lambert’s orgasm out of him along with a wanton moan.

Lambert’s face was flushed high in his cheeks, a testament to his enjoyment since it was hard to make a witcher blush. Vesemir smiled up at him, rubbing his hands up and down his sides for a moment before he ducked back down for more.

“ _Shit,_ ” Lambert grunted, choking on his own breath. His thighs clenched over Vesemir’s head, holding him in place as Vesemir focused more on the man’s hole. He tongued at the soft entrance, dipping in just enough to taste a slight coppery tang where Lambert’s delicate skin had torn from whatever escapade he’d gone on. It made Vesemir want to spoil him even more; made him want to wrap Lambert up in his arms and not let him leave until he’d banished all the pain from his mind.

It was an impossible desire, so Vesemir did the next best thing and ate Lambert out until he had the boy moaning loud enough to echo through the whole keep. His beard was quickly soaked with Lambert’s juices and the man’s black pubic hair was shiny with fluid from the both of them. Vesemir draped his arms over Lambert’s lower stomach as he rode the rise and fall of Lambert’s desperate hips.

When he felt that he had the man wound back up and ready to crest again, Vesemir pulled out an old trick. He brought one hand down and rubbed his fingers over Lambert’s pubic mound, right above his dick. Touch established, he then pushed his tongue deep and pressed firmly down on the spot.

Lambert came like a wave crashing against the shore, his entire pelvis lifting from the bed with the power of it. A name also followed, breathed out like a prayer on soft, flushed lips, “ _Aiden…_ ”

Vesemir was going to ignore it, but he must have reacted, because Lambert’s eyes went wide and his pleasure shriveled like an autumn leaf. He stared down at Vesemir with growling horror and despair.

Vesemir lifted his mouth from Lambert’s still soaked genitals, his heart thundering, guilt and sorrow stabbing into him. He quickly wiped his mouth before he rubbed his hands up and down the outside of Lambert’s thighs, speaking softly, trying to stem the tide of Lambert’s panic, “It’s ok, it’s ok pup. No need to fret, we’re ok…”

But it was too late. Lambert’s breath came in quicker and quicker bursts, hyperventilating as reality came crashing back to him. “He’s gone, he’s really gone and I let him die. I let him _die_ , Vesemir!” The words burst out of Lambert like pus from a badly dressed wound.

Lambert curled into himself, his eyes squeezing shut, and Vesemir felt like he was the one dying now to see his wolf so hurt. So hurt and nothing he could do to fix it. All he could do was rally himself against another bout of Lambert’s all-consuming despair. He crawled back up the bed and rearranged the two of them so they were on their sides, Lambert’s back pressed to Vesemir’s chest. He pulled the blankets and furs up over them again before sliding his arms around Lambert and holding him as tightly as he could. Like he could hold the fractured pieces of Lambert together if he just held on tight enough.

Sobs wracked Lambert’s body for a long time. Just when it seemed they were about to taper off, they came back afresh, so hard Vesemir feared Lambert would break a rib. There weren’t words for this kind of despair, even though Vesemir desperately wished there were. Wished there was something he could say, anything, that could take this weight off Lambert’s heart.

But the old witcher knew better. So he just held him, letting Lambert feel the beat of his heart steady against his back.

When the sobs finally faded, Lambert was left in a tired heap, his body completely drained. Vesemir could almost feel the bone-deep fatigue himself just from holding Lambert. But before he could try to lull Lambert into something like sleep, the man stiffened in his hold, and Vesemir knew it was over. He wished, selfishly, that he could extend Lambert’s vulnerability, could convince him to continue to let him help, let him take care of it. But that wasn’t how these things worked.

“I’d like to be alone now,” Lambert finally said, voice a miserable rasp.

Vesemir’s heart plummeted, but this was perhaps the most important test of trust. If he told Lambert that he could say no, could have agency, then he had to give it to him. “Alright,” Vesemir whispered back. He placed a steady hand on Lambert’s shoulder, a last gesture of comfort. “I’m never far.”

With that, he slid from the bed, pulled the furs to cover Lambert back up, and then left.

He shut the door quietly behind him, leaving Lambert to his grief. Naked and chilled in the cool evening air, Vesemir stood for a moment outside Lambert’s room, trying to still his fretful mind. He’d done all he could, now he had to let Lambert heal in his own way, but his heart hurt in a way he couldn’t describe. Too many leaks and not enough hands, as always. 

Vesemir looked down at himself, still nude, and heaved a sigh before he padded back toward the bathhouse. He should clean the tub of any dirt and take care of Lambert's armor and clothes. Then he’d make him up a plate of food and leave it by the bedroom door. That would have to be enough.


	2. Butcher

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt has a gut wound and a wounded soul when he returns to the keep. Vesemir can fix both.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So plot happened I guess? Not sure if this will stay at 3 chapters but we'll see. Anyway, enjoy soft Geralt/Vesemir. 
> 
> TW: some fairly graphic wound description at the beginning (skip to first section break if that's not your jam). Also direct references to Lambert's self destructive behavior.

A week passed and Lambert still hadn’t come out of his bedroom. Vesemir came by his chambers throughout the day, setting down fresh plates of food and retrieving picked clean ones. At least he was eating. And he must have been using the privy, though maybe not the bath from the smell of body odor that wafted out from under the doorframe as the days went on. Vesemir tried not to get anxious about it, but he couldn’t help but worry. 

On the eighth day, Vesemir was standing outside Lambert's room considering asking to see the man just to make sure he was ok (and maybe convince him to clean himself), when he heard footsteps stumbling across the stone floor from the great hall of the keep. 

His heart leapt and then immediately plummeted when the thick, tarry stench of blood hit him. 

“Lambert, get out here!” Vesemir snapped as he tore off down the hallway toward the keep entrance. 

He got there just in time to watch Geralt collapse onto the hard stone in a mess of bloody limbs and wrecked armor. 

Vesemir snatched a bundle of medical supplies from a nearby shelf and then landed down on his knees next to the witcher. “Geralt? Geralt, can you hear me?” he barked, forcing command into his voice to replace the panic he felt. Panicking would not help right now. 

He started to roll Geralt over and the man made a gurgling sound that would surely haunt Vesemir’s nightmares. Blood was thick on the air, but the smell of bile and stomach acid became stronger. A quick look down and Vesemir saw why—Geralt had been gutted. His abdomen was torn open, one bloody hand all that held in his protruding intestines. 

“What the—fuck, _oh fuck_ ,” Lambert snarled from behind him. 

“Help me get him onto his back.” 

Lambert—shirtless, with only a pair of trousers on, Vesemir dully noted—did just that. They had Geralt turned over within seconds and the younger wolf quickly set about removing Geralt’s armor. 

Vesemir ripped open the medical pouch, pulling out a rag and a bottle of White Gull. He soaked the rag with the sterilizing alcohol and laid it down over the open wound. 

Geralt jerked and gurgled as the alcohol did its disinfecting work. His eyes flashed open, black as pitch. “ _Fffgghh_ …”

“Easy, Wolf, we’ve got you,” Vesemir tried to sooth as he swiftly pulled out his suturing kit. He would have gone for a potion if Geralt's face wasn’t already covered in spider-webbing black veins. Near toxicity, if not already over it. A quick glance at Geralt's potion belt showed it was empty, confirming that theory if the black eyes and bulging veins hadn’t. Vesemir frowned harder. A Swallow potion should have stitched up the worst of these wounds already, even if he was over toxicity. 

Geralt’s head lolled one way, then the other, his breath coming in pained, wet gasps. “ _Sssst-sstngh_ …” 

Vesemir paused, sensing intent in Geralt’s babbling. He searched over the man’s body. Was there something worse than an open gut wound? 

Grabbing a knife, Vesemir sliced down the center of Geralt's ruined shirt, cutting away any stray armor scraps that still tried valiantly to cling to him. 

Lambert stared at him like he’d lost his mind, eyes wide with swiftly growing frustration. “Why aren’t you stitching him up?” he demanded. 

When he had Geralt's chest exposed, his eyes swept up and down it. Vesemir saw it in the next instant—a small puncture wound the size of a finger, barely bleeding, but worryingly close to Geralt’s heart. 

Vesemir slid up closer, leaning down to try and see if there was anything still lodged there. “Wolf, can you tell me what did this? Was it a beast?” Vesemir asked, speaking clearly and directly, his centuries of training the only thing keeping him from a full-blown panic. 

Geralt tried to speak, but only managed a wet, gurling wheeze that turned into a rough cough. Blood and something black and oily sprayed out. The smell was pungent, even with the cloying, metallic blood smell in the air. Both Vesemir’s and Lambert’s nostrils flared. “A fungus?” Lambert ventured. 

“Black moss,” Vesemir confirmed. “And… something fruity. A poison? Were you poisoned, Wolf?”

Geralt’s eyes rolled back, his breath heaving out of his chest. More black veins crept up over his face and bare chest, crawling over his translucent skin like black tentacles. He managed to make one shaking hand into a shape, as if he were holding the trigger of his crossbow. 

“A poisoned bolt,” Vesemir realized. “Bad enough to take you down, which is saying something,” he muttered as he dug further into his supplies. 

“What do we do?” Lambert asked, switched back into soldier mode and ready to follow Vesemir’s command.

“We have to remove the bolt in his chest,” Vesemir informed him as he laid out several potion vials. “Need you to administer these after I pull it. White Honey first, then Golden Oriole, then Swallow.” 

Vesemir lined up the potions before he retrieved a pair of long, thin pliers. It had to be done, but if whoever made the poison was good enough to make it this strong, Vesemir knew that pulling out that bolt would make it worse before it got better. Even Geralt had his limits. They had to act fast. 

Lambert grabbed the first potion, the White Honey, as he cradled Geralt's head in his lap. Vesemir saw the panic trying to take over in him, but his training won out as his hand stayed steady where he held the vial. 

“Wait until I pull it,” Vesemir instructed, then pushed the thin pliers into the puncture wound. 

Geralt twitched and groaned in pain, black foam gathering at the edges of his lips as his eyes flashed open again. They had a worrying red tint at the edges now, a sign of extreme toxicity. His body was failing, his mutations unable to mitigate the onslaught much longer. 

Lambert was talking to Geralt, repeating the same simple instruction: “You’ll need to swallow this potion soon. Get ready to drink this potion…” as Vesemir sank the pliers in deeper. An inch, two, past the ribs and sternum. He closed his eyes, listening and feeling, until he felt a slight resistance and heard the softest click of metal on metal as the nose of the pliers found their target. 

“Ok,” Vesemir said. “It’ll do damage as it comes out. Be ready.” 

Lambert nodded once, and Vesemir jerked the pliers out, the bolt head popping out with a spray of blackened blood. 

Vesemir didn’t spare a second to look at the thing, just tossed the pliers aside and held onto Geralt's writhing shoulders as Lambert fed him the first potion. 

By the time they had the second potion to his lips, the lifesaving one, the one that _mattered_ , Geralt was already fading. His eyes went glassy and his body started to fall limp.

“Oh, no you _don’t_ ,” Vesemir snarled. He snatched the Golden Oriole from Lambert's hand and cast Axii at the same time. “Geralt, I need you to look at me. Look at me and focus.” 

Geralt’s eyes rolled, brackish foam and flecks of blood bubbling up from his mouth as his body started to seize. Vesemir cursed as he whipped the blood-soaked rag from Geralt’s open stomach wound and then poured the potion directly into his body.

Not for the first time, Geralt's scream of agony filled the walls of the keep. 

***

“How did you know that would work?” Lambert asked him an hour later. 

They were both standing outside the infirmary. Or, what served as the infirmary now. Used to be Kilian's room, but a corpse had no use for a bedroom. 

“What would work?” Vesemir grunted, watching the rise and fall of Geralt’s chest from where he could see his prone form from the doorway. 

“The whole potion in the guts thing?” 

“Wouldn’t suggest making that your usual method of imbibing them.” 

Lambert snorted, crossing his arms over his chest. He’d dressed himself by then, armor back on, swords on his back. He looked almost normal if it weren’t for the new, haunted look behind his eyes. “Didn’t plan to. Just didn’t think they could work like that.” 

Vesemir continued to stare forward, unable to take his eyes off the Wolf for an instant. “It probably shouldn’t have. Last time I tried it, made no difference.”

Lambert tensed next to him, and Vesemir could feel a fight coming like a storm on the horizon. 

“You didn’t know… no, you _knew_ it probably wouldn’t work?” Lambert demanded. 

“The man I tried it on was already gone, so it wasn’t an accurate test,” Vesemir replied mildly, even as visions of dull eyes and a hand going limp where it had grasped onto him invaded his thoughts. He pushed it aside. “His stomach was open. Only reason it had a chance to work.” 

Lambert stared at him for a moment longer before he scoffed and shook his head. “Unbelievable,” he muttered. 

Vesemir shrugged. “What else would you have had me do? Let him choke on his own blood and bile?”

“Should have given him the Golden Oriole first,” Lambert spat, clearly itching for an argument.

Vesemir didn’t rise to it, just calmly explained as if he were lecturing, which he knew would only further annoy Lambert. “Golden Oriole is not immune to its own toxicity. It may have neutralized the poison, but Geralt's potion pouch was empty. Sure, he could have just been out, but more likely he’d taken whatever he had left just to get himself to the keep. Couldn’t risk overdose, not with that dart still pumping poison into his body—” 

“Ugh, fine! I fucking get it, alright?” Lambert stared moodily down at his feet. Vesemir didn’t say any more. He heard what was actually making Lambert so argumentative, hidden deep under layers of anger. Fear. They’d almost lost one of their own. Vesemir felt it too. It was why he knew he wouldn’t be able to bring himself to leave Geralt's side for a while. 

After a minute of silence, Lambert scuffed his boot against the stone floor. “It was still poisoning him?” he finally asked. 

Vesemir nodded. “Haven’t had time to really study the thing, but it looked like a dart delivered on the head of a crossbow bolt. The bolt tore the flesh, while the dart was designed to slowly release the poison over an extended period. Taking it out makes it worse. More torn flesh, more paths for the poison to take.” 

Vesemir could see Lambert frowning out the corner of his eye. A frown that quickly turned into a scowl. “Is it just me, or does that sound like a weapon specifically designed for a witcher?” 

That had been Vesemir's thought as well. He didn’t reply, his silence enough of a confirmation. 

Lambert swore, turning and kicking the wall in a sudden outburst. He huffed a breath through his nose, mouth pressed into a thin line. 

“I need you to do a perimeter check of the keep,” Vesemir told him, hoping the task would help distract Lambert a bit. “Quietly. Don’t engage if you find anything. We don’t know what they’re—”

“I get it, old man,” Lambert cut him off, already retreating down the hallway. “No picky fighty, got it.” 

Vesemir let out a long-suffering sigh, not at all convinced that Lambert would follow his instructions, but he had to trust in his intelligence. Lambert was reckless, but not stupid. 

With Lambert off on his task, Vesemir returned to Geralt's side, sitting down on a wooden chair at his bedside. He let out a tired breath as he sat, tipping his head against the back of the chair. 

They’d almost lost him. They’d almost lost Geralt. 

Vesemir would never admit to favoring any of the wolves, but anyone could see he and Geralt had a deeper kinship. Geralt, the protégé, the gifted child whose body had taken so well to the mutagens that instead of rewarding him with never having to be subjected to that again, they’d tortured him even more with further mutations. 

Vesemir knew Geralt believed in destiny, even if he was bitter about it. Geralt didn’t blame him for the pain he’d suffered through. That didn’t stop Vesemir from blaming himself. It would be easy to push the blame onto the other witchers, and granted, Vesemir had never been the one to create or administer the mutagens. But Vesemir had thought it was an appropriate action at the time. It was how they did things, back then. If a boy showed greater acceptance of the mutagens, they gave him more. The pain didn’t matter. The boys' feelings didn’t matter. They were there to become witchers, and to become the strongest witchers possible. 

How utterly short-sighted. How completely cruel. 

“Got that look on your face,” Geralt's gravelly voice pulled him from his reverie. 

Vesemir opened his eyes and looked at the man, unable to keep a relieved smile from his face. It took him a second to realize what he’d said, too busy appreciating Geralt's no-longer-black eyes and clear completion. “What look?” he finally replied. 

“That pinched looked you get when you’re too far back in your memories,” Geralt replied. He barely moved, only tipping his head a bit to look at Vesemir, but he kept his body motionless otherwise. Stiff and in pain, but covering it well. 

Vesemir grunted, non-committal. “How do you feel, Wolf?” he asked, deflecting. 

“Like shit,” Geralt replied. “Barely remember anything.” 

“Do you remember what did all that to you?” 

Geralt’s face turned stormy. “Who, not what. A group of what I thought were bandits, way too close to the keep,” he explained, his frown turning into a snarl of anger. “Thought I’d take care of them. Stupid, sloppy. Didn’t see whoever had the crossbow that got that fucking _thing_ into me.” 

Vesemir leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees, lips pulling into a grimace. 

“Had already taken a couple potions when the bolt hit me. Felt the poison, so popped my last Golden Oriole. Knocked me right over toxicity immediately and barely scratched the poison’s effects.” He shook his head. “I think the poison increases toxicity. Might even be immune or resistant to our potions. And… it was like they waited. Like they knew not to hit me with the poison until I couldn’t counteract it in time.” Geralt looked back at Vesemir, his face grim. 

Vesemir blew out a breath. “Seems they have a lot of inside knowledge. A suspicious amount. You leave any of them alive?” 

Geralt’s expression barely moved, but Vesemir saw the shame creeping in behind his eyes. “Don’t think I got all of them. Once the poison hit, took a glaive to the gut. Things get blurry after that. Killed a few more, but there’s probably some left.” His lip curled in a self-deprecating grin. “So much for the Butcher.” 

Vesemir raised a brow. “That nickname still clinging to you?” How long had it been since that particular season? Two, three years maybe. 

“Humans have long memories when it comes to slaughtering entire villages, apparently.” Geralt was back to frowning, shame and regret burning him up under his stoic exterior. 

Vesemir placed a steady hand on Geralt's forearm where it rested above the blanket. “We’ll make sure to snuff that nest of witcher killers. Lambert is out now doing a perimeter. He might act like he doesn’t care, but you know he’ll kill anyone who hurts you.” 

Geralt rolled his eyes, but the bitterness had faded to make way for a tired fondness. “He doesn’t need to protect me.” 

“Sure he does,” Vesemir replied. “Makes him feel useful. You can let him have that, right?” 

Geralt huffed, amused. “I suppose.” 

Vesemir patted his arm. “Good. Now sleep. Real sleep. You deserve it.”

Something ugly passed over Geralt's nearly unreadable features at that, but he just nodded. As he closed his eyes, sleep already pulling at his muscles, he rasped a quiet, “Thank you.” 

Vesemir's heart ached at that. He gave Geralt an adoring look, replying simply, “Of course, Wolf.” 

***

  
The next day, Vesemir and Lambert prowled the grounds around the keep and the mountain pass leading to it, looking for signs of intruders. They followed the worryingly long trail of Geralt's blood to what was clearly the site of the ambush. It was easy to see how most of the fight had gone down, Geralt’s tracks nearly imperceptible until he got into the battle, then the place his tracks stumbled when he’d been hit with the dart, and nearby that the dark, thick stain of blood on the rocks that marked where the glaive had gotten him. 

What they didn’t find, however, were bodies. The bandits had either hidden them, took them somewhere else, or completely destroyed them. And worse, they didn’t find any tracks leading away from the camp besides Geralt's. In fact, there wasn’t even a camp left. Just the evidence of tent stakes nailed into the ground and a doused campfire. 

It seemed impossible. Everything left tracks, but Vesemir and Lambert searched the camp for nearly an hour before the older witcher heaved a sigh.

“They’re good, whoever they are.” 

“No, they’re fucking evil,” Lambert snapped. 

Vesemir frowned at him. Lambert had been agitated all day, but his mood had worsened when they reached the site of the attack. Now, he was acting dodgy and tense, like he thought something might pop out at them any minute. It was not Lambert's usual confident swagger. 

“Lambert,” Vesemir started. 

The man groaned, rubbing a hand over his face. “You know I hate that tone.” 

“What are you not telling me?” 

“Nothing!” Lambert snapped too quickly. 

Vesemir faced him fully, crossing his arms over his chest. “If you know something that could help Geralt—”

“Oh, gods forbid anyone hurts one hair on the favorite child's head!” Lambert sneered in response. 

“Stop deflecting,” Vesemir said, tone flat. “That’s not what this is about and you know it.” 

“Oh?” Lambert asked with bitter sarcasm. “Is it not? It’s not about how Geralt is the golden boy and it doesn’t matter what happens to the rest of us as long as he’s ok?” 

Vesemir took a breath through his nose. Let it out. “No. It’s that Eskel still has to travel through this pass and I am not finding his body with a poisonous dart lodged in it.” 

Geralt's extra mutations were probably the only thing that had saved him. If it had been any of the rest of them, Vesemir included, they would have died. 

That, at least, seemed to take some of the wind from Lambert's sails. Vesemir stared him down. “Do you know something?” he asked again. 

Lambert scuffed his boot on the rocky ground. “It doesn’t matter. It won’t help.” 

Vesemir was getting a clawing sickness in his stomach. His mind was making connections that he didn’t want to acknowledge. “Lambert…” he questioned quietly.

“I hate that tone more,” Lambert grumbled. “Go back to the condescending one please.” 

“Lambert, did they hurt you too?” 

Lambert snarled, still not looking at him directly. “I asked for it, ok? So no, they didn’t.” 

Vesemir felt something catch in his chest. The marks on Lambert's body, the recent damage to his genitals… 

“Look, if I’d know they’d do that to Geralt I would have killed them!” Lambert went on, voice pitching up with guilt he tried to hide with defensiveness. “I thought that… shit, I don’t know. I’m just an idiot, ok? I didn’t think that—that _this_ would happen.” 

Vesemir wanted to shake Lambert and also wrap Lambert up in his arms and he also wanted to kill every single one of these bastards. But he kept his anger a tight ball in his chest. Didn’t want Lambert to think he was angry at _him_. He swallowed thickly. “Why did they leave you alive? Seems they have it out for witchers.”

Lambert shrugged. His face looked like he’d just eaten something rotten. “I didn’t come in swinging like Geralt did.” 

No, he’d seen an opportunity to hurt himself and took it, Vesemir thought. 

Before he could figure out what to say next, Lambert added, quieter this time, “They definitely hate witchers, whoever they are.” 

Vesemir couldn’t take it. He closed his eyes and turned away, fists clenching at his sides. His palm itched for his sword. Fury bubbled slow and simmering under his skin. 

The wind whipped at them through the pass, and Vesemir slowly opened his eyes to gaze around the abandoned campsite. “They’ll pay for what they’ve done to my boys.” 

Vesemir hadn’t realized he’d actually said that aloud until he glanced at Lambert and saw him gawking at him, surprise and something else—relief? Shame?—etched into his face. 

Vesemir gave him a level stare. “Do you remember any details about any of them? Anything at all?” 

Lambert visibly gulped, looking away again. “There… there was this one guy. Had a big burn scar across his face, and it looked like he was brewing something.” 

Vesemir committed the description to memory, trying to picture this man's face and what it would look like lifeless. “Thank you. That’s our target.” 

***

  
Vesemir only managed to keep Geralt bedridden for about a day and a half. After that, Geralt was out on the list doing sword drills. Vesemir thought at first that he just needed to get the frustration out of his system, work off the stress and fear of nearly dying. But when Geralt limped out to the list for three days in a row of day-long drills, he knew he had to step in. 

It was sunrise, and Geralt was out in the cold, golden glow of late autumn. He wore only a loose shirt and leather trousers, bare footed even. Vesemir was usually up at the same time, if not earlier, but instead of taking the morning to do his routine list of chores, he followed after Geralt. 

The Wolf glanced at him when he leaned against one of the partially fallen stone walls in the courtyard. Vesemir waved a hand at him. “Don’t mind me.” 

Geralt eyed him for a moment longer, then went back to his drill. He took out his steel sword, placing the sheath on the ground out of the way. He then took his place in the center of the practice ring. 

Vesemir watched him slow his breathing, just like he’d taught him so long ago. His eyelids lowered, using his breath to center himself, his body sinking into the starting position. Then with a burst of movement he was dancing through the form, the steel sword glinting in the morning sunlight. 

It truly was like watching a dancer. Vesemir had never seen a man take to a sword like Geralt had. It was one reason why they had struck such a quick bond; Vesemir, the head fencing instructor, and Geralt, his best student. The way his body moved and flowed from one position to the next, it was as if Vesemir could see the energy shifting in him. It flowed through his limbs to align every single joint, every single muscle, his body connected, the sword completing the movements like an extension of his soul. 

He finished the set with a controlled breath out, his body settling into a resting stance, then glanced at Vesemir. “Any critique?” 

Vesemir shrugged. “Nothing, that was perfect. But why aren’t you wearing shoes?” 

Geralt blinked at the question, glancing down. He shrugged. “Have to be prepared for anything, right?” 

“I suppose,” Vesemir conceded. “Do form seven,” he offered. 

Geralt seemed eager for the instruction. He nodded and took the starting position. 

Vesemir watched Geralt perform this form as perfectly as the last one, but he wasn’t watching for foot placement this time. He was watching Geralt himself. Trying to see to the heart of whatever troubled him. 

When Geralt finished the form, Vesemir nodded.

“Good. Now do it as if you’re facing an enemy much shorter than you.” 

Geralt nodded once, a short jerk of his chin, and moved into the altered form without skipping a beat.   
Vesemir thought back to their conversation in the infirmary; specifically the Butcher comment. He knew it still bothered Geralt, but maybe it bothered him more than even Vesemir had realized. 

Plenty of witchers, both alive and dead, were right bastards. But Geralt wasn’t one of them. Geralt was one of the best men Vesemir had ever met. Noble, self-sacrificing, and soft hearted no matter what front he put on. 

And it was exactly that soft heart that left him open to being hurt. Vesemir recalled the first winter Geralt had returned from the Path. He’d been devastated by the reaction most humans had to witchers. He’d set out in earnest to help the world with their problems, and now? Now, he seemed to want nothing to do with any of that. He wanted simple contracts and to be left alone. It hurt him, to lose that care for the world. And it hurt Vesemir to see it.

Form completed again, Geralt waited for the next instruction, not even lowering his sword. 

Vesemir nodded again. “Same form, multiple enemies.” 

The sword flashed again, this time with jabs out to all sides, Geralt using every part of his body to strike at invisible opponents. 

This time, Vesemir saw it. A desperation crawling over Geralt’s body like insects. And as soon as he detected it, the mistakes started coming. A wrong foot. An incomplete jab. Geralt's expression began to snarl, picking up on his own mistakes yet unable to correct them. 

To anyone else the form would have looked perfect. Certainly, it still would have been effective in a fight. But the two oldest Wolf witchers knew. 

At the end of the form Geralt stood there panting, his shoulders trembling. He turned the sword around in his palm a couple times, staring down at the ground. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” he finally grit out. 

Vesemir watched him calmly, thinking through his next words. Geralt wasn’t nearly as volatile as Lambert, but he could shut down just as easily. Maybe easier. Vesemir could always get a rise out of Lambert, but when Geralt decided he was done, that was it. “Describe it for me,” Vesemir said, putting his instructor voice on. 

Geralt ground his teeth together, golden eyes staring at the dirt. “My body feels… wrong.” 

Vesemir didn’t mind his lack of description; it was how Geralt had always been. “Wrong how?” he gently pressed. 

Geralt huffed a frustrated breath. He walked over to where he’d left his sword sheath and scooped it up. “Like I can’t trust my own body. As if… as if any moment I’ll snap or slip and it’ll be over.” 

Vesemir nodded. “That can happen after so close a scrape with death,” he offered. 

Geralt snapped the sword into its hilt. “Been like this for a while. All year.” 

Vesemir wanted to ask if he’d started feeling this way after he’d gotten his latest unfortunate moniker, but that seemed far too direct. “Is that why you’re working yourself to the bone out here?” 

Geralt huffed, staring down at the sheathed sword in his hands, rubbing at the hilt. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, something clearly on his mind. Vesemir waited, giving Geralt space. 

When he finally spoke, his voice was stilted and tense. “You and Lambert, you… you help him, sometimes, right?” 

Vesemir blinked. That was not what he’d expected to be talking about, but he simply shrugged. “Occasionally. When he lets me.” 

“And it’s… hm… intimate?” 

Vesemir wasn’t one to blab to just anyone about the special bond he and Lambert had, but Geralt wasn’t just anyone, and Vesemir didn’t make a habit of lying to his wolves. Besides, Geralt had walked in on them once in the past, so he’d had at least a glimpse. But the fact that Geralt had never brought it up afterwards told Vesemir he simply wasn’t interested. Perhaps even put off by it. “It can be, when he wants it to be,” he replied with a note of caution. 

A flutter of anxiety tickled at the back of Vesemir's mind as Geralt took his time to reply. What if Geralt thought it was wrong? Or, worse, what if Lambert had told him something? Something like Vesemir had hurt him? Vesemir wasn’t sure he’d be able to live with himself if he’d actually been hurting Lambert this whole time. 

The thoughts passed through his mind until Vesemir noticed just how timid Geralt's body language was. Nervous, flighty, but strangely… hopeful? 

_Oh_.

Vesemir tilted his head, “Are you trying to ask me for something similar, Wolf?” 

Geralt turned away, rubbing at the back of his neck, and then seemed to brace himself. He turned to look directly at Vesemir, something like fear in his eyes and the tense set of his shoulders. “I would never disrespect you.”

“Of course.”

“I would never want to ruin our relationship.” 

“Naturally.” 

“But I would like that.” 

“Sure.” 

Geralt had his mouth open, maybe to defend himself some more, but then he just blinked, frozen for a moment. “What?” he finally said. 

Vesemir gave him a fond smile as he shrugged. “Sure. Of course, Wolf. I would love to help you in that way.” In fact, Vesemir found his heart racing with excitement. A part of him had always wanted to breach this invisible wall with Geralt, but he’d never wanted to push him or feel as if he were using his position of superiority to take advantage of the man. 

“Oh,” Geralt said. He looked down at his sheathed sword, then up to the sky, then finally back at Vesemir. “So, now what?” 

Vesemir chuckled, turning and waving his hand. “Follow me.” 

“Let’s lay some ground rules,” Vesemir said after he’d led Geralt to his bedroom. He thought of going to Geralt’s room, but somehow that seemed too intimate. Those spaces were special, and if whatever they did turned out to be something Geralt didn’t like, Vesemir didn’t want his Wolf's space to be tainted. 

Geralt had trailed after him like a nervous puppy. He hid it well, but Vesemir could see it in the way his eyes darted around. Geralt had been to his room many times, but now he looked around at the laden bookshelves and neatly made bed like he’d never been there in his life. He focused back on Vesemir as the man spoke. “Ok.” 

“Whatever happens, we will always be friends. That bond comes first, no matter what,” Vesemir said, steadily meeting Geralt’s gaze. “We have to stick together and trust each other, and I will do whatever it takes to preserve that.”

Geralt blew out a relieved breath, nodding. “Agreed.” 

“Good.” Vesemir sat down on his cherished overstuffed armchair, the upholstery singed a bit on one of the corners, but he’d never part with the thing if he could help it. “The next rule is that you must help me preserve our relationship. I can read you pretty well, Wolf, but I can’t read your mind. You must tell me if you are uncomfortable, even mildly.” 

Geralt grimaced, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “Not good with words at the best of times,” he muttered. 

“That’s alright. You don’t have to speak to notify me that something is wrong. Would tapping me with two fingers work for you?” 

Again, tension leaked from Geralt’s nervous frame. He nodded, a little more enthusiastic now. “Yes, I can do that.” 

Vesemir gave him a smile. “Good. Lastly, if we need to stop, I will stop us. You may stop us as well, but there can sometimes be…” he searched for the right word, “sensations let loose that you may not be used to feeling. I need you to trust that if I stop, I am not angry or disappointed in you, and that we will talk about it afterwards.” 

Geralt seemed a little bewildered by that last one, but shrugged and simply nodded again. 

“Excellent. Are you ready to begin?” 

Geralt stood straighter at that, squaring his shoulders as if he were about to go into battle. He nodded. “Yes.” 

“Good boy,” Vesemir started, testing the waters. Geralt looked surprised but not upset by the endearment. Vesemir took that as a good sign and motioned to the floor in front of him. “Why don’t you kneel before me, facing me please.” 

Geralt’s hands flexed in a nervous motion as he smoothly sank to the floor before Vesemir. 

“A bit closer, Wolf,” Vesemir murmured with a smile. 

Geralt glanced up at him, then scooted closer, his chest almost touching Vesemir's knees. 

“Perfect,” Vesemir said. “I’m going to start with touching your hair. Is that alright?” 

With a nod from Geralt, Vesemir leaned forward and carefully took the leather tie out of Geralt's white hair. Vesemir remembered when it had been a dark auburn, but no less silky and long. Geralt had always kept his hair long. For some reason that had always comforted Vesemir. 

With the leather tie set aside, Vesemir slowly pulled his fingers through Geralt's hair from crown to ends. A few pieces stuck to his callouses, and there were quite a few tangles, but Vesemir was careful not to let anything tug or pull. He didn’t know yet if Geralt would prefer gentleness and affection or if he craved something rougher, but either way, Vesemir wanted him relaxed. 

Geralt sighed out a breath, closing his eyes as Vesemir began to massage his scalp with strong, sure fingers. Geralt leaned his forehead against Vesemir’s knee, and even that tiny connection sent ripples of excitement through the older wolf. 

After several minutes, Vesemir slid his hands down the sides of Geralt's neck and murmured, “Why don’t you put your arms around me, hm? Just rest them at my sides here.” He helped the already bleary-eyed man arrange his arms so they were hugging around Vesemir's thighs and hips, spreading his knees so Geralt could place his head securely in Vesemir’s lap. 

Vesemir went back to petting, alternating between pressing his fingers down Geralt's scalp and lightly scratching with his blunt nails. Geralt melted into the affectionate touches, small, growling sounds of contentment leaving him with each breath. 

“How are you feeling, Wolf?” Vesemir asked after a few minutes, keeping his voice low and his fingers continuing their work. 

It took Geralt a solid few seconds to formulate a response. “Unexpected,” he finally rumbled. 

Vesemir arched a brow, smiling. “What did you expect?” 

Geralt’s eyes flashed up at him for a moment, and Vesemir caught some embarrassment in that look. He shrugged, then settled more securely in Vesemir's lap. “Not this. But it’s good.”

Vesemir chuckled, “Alright then.” 

Vesemir stroked Geralt’s hair for a few more minutes, taking his time. There was no rush. But even though he could tell Geralt was enjoying the attention, there was still something buzzing under his skin. Some pent up energy that a few head scritches wouldn’t fix. Geralt had asked for intimacy, and Vesemir was not going to disappoint. 

He gave a few broader strokes over Geralt’s hair as a way of signaling there would be a change soon, then said softly, “I would like to take a look at that wound on your stomach. Would you strip and lie on the bed for me?” 

Geralt nodded, his hair falling into his face as he lifted his head from Vesemir’s lap. Before he stood, Vesemir caught Geralt’s cheek with one cupped hand, meeting his eyes. “I’m going to take my armor off, just to be comfortable. Are you alright with that?” 

Geralt blinked at him, confused. “Sure?” 

Vesemir didn’t respond to his confusion, just nodded and smiled. “Good boy, thank you.” He watched a shudder go through Geralt even as his brow furrowed in deeper confusion. 

Vesemir stood and moved to his armor rack to divest himself of his cuirass and gambeson, sliding off his boots as well. He heard Geralt moving behind him but stopped himself from watching. He didn’t want this to be like when Geralt visited a brothel or picked up some inn wench. He didn’t want to just give Geralt a titillating experience he could pay for anywhere else. Vesemir wanted to give him something no one else could. He wanted to open him up. He wanted to drop every single wall Geralt had. 

When Vesemir was down to his shirt, trousers, and wool socks, he turned to see Geralt completely nude, laid out on the bed like it was a specimen table. 

Well, he had told Geralt to ‘strip’ and hadn’t specified how much. Vesemir added a note to his new mental diagram that the man took directions literally and to the extreme. But that was fine, Vesemir could work with that level of obedience. 

Vesemir gave him a fond smile as he walked toward the bed. Clad only in his wolf medallion, Geralt’s cock was already a little thick, which certainly made Vesemir feel proud of himself. He sat down at the edge of the bed and carefully examined the pink skin around the mostly healed gash at Geralt's abdomen.

“Another scar,” he rumbled, to which Geralt just grunted. Vesemir took the time to legitimately check over the wound before, satisfied, he lightly skated his fingers up Geralt's exposed ribs. “A lean year this one, hm?” 

Another grunt, this one quieter. Vesemir glanced up at Geralt’s face and could see the discomfort there. There was a storm of emotions locked carefully away, showing through his skin like a shadow theater. Vesemir placed both hands on either side of Geralt’s waist, moving deliberately, not wanting to surprise him as he leaned down and placed a kiss just above the rippled pink scar. 

Geralt’s sharp intake of breath gave him pause. Vesemir glanced up at the man again, past the svelte chest with its forest of white chest hair, to the glimmering gold eyes looking down at him with worry. “Is this ok?” Vesemir asked, rubbing his thumbs in comforting circles. 

Geralt nodded, then pressed his eyes shut, his hands turning to fists at his sides. 

Vesemir's brow crinkled with concern. “Geralt, remember the rules we agreed on,” he gently reminded. 

Geralt looked away from him, toward the empty fireplace. Vesemir could practically see the words sitting in his throat, stuck there. He waited, then finally, “You’re so gentle…” 

The words croaked out of Geralt's throat, and Vesemir tried to decipher their meaning. He sounded mournful, ashamed even. The pieces started to click together. “Do you not want gentle, Geralt?” 

Geralt swallowed, still looking away. “Don’t deserve it.”

Vesemir felt the words strike right into his heart. He had been correct in his earlier assessment; there was a lot that bothered Geralt that even Vesemir hadn’t completely picked up on. 

But Vesemir knew how to fix this, or at least help it. There was a difference between what Geralt deserved and what he needed. “I think I’ll be the one to decide what you do and do not deserve,” Vesemir replied, injecting a bit of authority into his voice. 

Geralt responded immediately. His pupils, cat-like slits before, widened as he sucked a quick breath in. 

“Is that what you want?” Vesemir asked, just to be sure. 

“Yes,” Geralt croaked. 

“Yes, what?” 

Geralt's eyelids fluttered, and Vesemir noticed his cock give a twitch too. “Yes, sir.” 

Oh, it had been a long time since anyone had called him that. On the practice field, ‘Teacher’ had been the only title Vesemir had reluctantly allowed. But he’d been called ‘sir’ many times by various other witchers in situations not all too dissimilar from this one. It was a heady feeling to hear it fall from Geralt’s lips, so long as he ignored the stab of sorrow that always accompanied memories of his old friends. 

“Good boy,” he replied and watched the words shudder through Geralt, brows twisting up as he wrestled with the praise. 

Vesemir sat up, keeping one hand on Geralt's hip as he instructed, “I would like you back on your knees, on the rug, please.” 

Despite the polite phrasing, Vesemir left no room in his voice for argument. Not that he was likely to get one from Geralt. The man slid from the bed without a word, walking to the center of the cozy bedroom and kneeling with his back to Vesemir. It was a familiar pose, and the familiarity brought security, even though Vesemir noticed a tremble in the breath Geralt took. 

Vesemir stood and watched him for a moment, letting the anticipation hang. This hadn’t been in his original plan, and he would need to make one additional safety precaution. 

Walking up behind him, Vesemir placed a hand securely on the back of Geralt’s neck. “You may not be able to touch me, Wolf. I need to know if you need things to stop,” he explained, keeping his voice low and authoritative. “I want you to pick a word that you would probably not say in a situation like this. Just one word, so I know if you need me to stop.”

Geralt’s breath had already picked up. He took a moment, then answered, “Roach.” 

Vesemir smiled. “Good boy. You say that word if you are ever uncomfortable. Remember, I will not be angry or disappointed.” 

Geralt nodded, leaning a little into Vesemir's touch on his neck. 

Vesemir wished for a moment that they could go back to the gentle indulgence he’d wanted to give Geralt. It was his preferred style; he liked to spoil, to service, but he understood this. And he was honored Geralt trusted him this much. 

Vesemir reluctantly removed his hand from Geralt's neck, standing and padding over to his armor rack where he retrieved one of the many leather straps available there. “This is about Blaviken, isn’t it,” Vesemir said, finally addressing the issue directly. 

When he looked back, Geralt's head was bowed, his hair hiding his face, the shame practically rolling off him. 

Vesemir sighed as he approached. “I thought as much.” He stood in front of Geralt, holding the leather lightly in one hand. “Tell me how many you killed there.”

Geralt hadn’t looked back up at him yet. He shook his head, mumbling, “Don’t know.” 

“Give me a number, Wolf.” 

Geralt flinched at Vesemir's hard tone, and finally glanced up. He saw the leather strap then, and Vesemir watched eagerness and trepidation battle behind his eyes. “At least 30,” he whispered. 

Vesemir nodded. “Why don’t we call it 35,” he decided, and Geralt nodded his assent. Number decided, Vesemir retrieved the leather cording for Geralt’s hair and handed it to him. Wordlessly, Geralt took the tie and pulled his hair up into a high tail, out of the way of his back and shoulders. 

Vesemir watched him for a moment more, then walked up close and slowly slid his fingers under the chain of Geralt's wolf pendant. He lifted it off his neck and over his head before carefully tucking it into his belt. 

He may as well have flayed Geralt with the way the man's face pinched with pain and shame at the removal. “You will get that back once you’ve earned it,” Vesemir told him, unable to keep a sympathetic note from his voice. Geralt took a shuddering breath, clearly struggling to keep his composure, but nodded again, accepting Vesemir’s authority. 

Vesemir moved to stand behind him, watching Geralt's muscled back shiver and twitch. “You will receive 35 lashes,” he announced, voice calm and authoritative. “There’s no need to act stoic or hold back. This is not a test of your toughness. I want to hear the effect I’m having on you.” 

Geralt took another shaky breath and nodded, the tail of his hair bouncing with the movement.

Vesemir weighed the belt in his hand. Folded in half, it was still long and thin enough that it could break skin if given enough force. Vesemir mentally calculated the strength he would need. He wouldn’t injure Geralt, but he had to make him feel this or else it wouldn’t work. And he knew how much the man could take. 

“Remember your word, Geralt,” he said in a softer tone. “Say it for me now, please.” 

“Roach,” Geralt grated out. 

“Good. We will begin.” Without further delay, Vesemir swept the belt back and then snapped the leather in a broad strike across Geralt’s shoulders. It cracked over his skin, leaving a bone white stripe that quickly pinkened as blood rushed up under his skin. 

Vesemir continued, keeping his strikes measured and regular, layering stripes across the expanse of Geralt’s back. He didn’t want to surprise Geralt or try to trick him; he wanted this to almost be a meditative experience if possible. 

After 10, Geralt started to lean forward, the barest grunts of pain escaping his clenched jaw as the welts began to freckle with pinpricks of blood. 

After 20, Vesemir had to pause at the slight coppery tang in the air, Geralt’s bloody arrival to the keep still a little too close in his memory. He took a slow breath to settle the anxiety in his mind, and in the ensuing silence could hear Geralt’s hard breaths hissing through his nose. Vesemir frowned; Geralt was still holding himself back. 

Mind settled, Vesemir walked forward to thread his fingers into Geralt’s hair and bend his head back. He used his knee to press between Geralt’s shoulder blades right where the welts made his skin sensitive. Geralt didn’t fight him, just gasped at the contact, his body arching in Vesemir's hold. 

“Over halfway, and I’ve barely heard a peep from you,” Vesemir rumbled. 

Geralt grimaced, a whine attempting to escape his throat before he bit it off. 

“Am I not hitting you hard enough?” 

Geralt closed his eyes, then growled out an angry, “No,” before he opened them again and stared up at Vesemir like a challenge. 

So he did have a hint of defiance to him, if only to get the pain he wanted. Well, that wasn’t the way to get it. 

Vesemir’s expression broke with a look of sad fondness. He let go of Geralt's hair to stroke his knuckles down his stubbled cheek. “My sweet Wolf, I’ve been dealing with Lambert far too long for something like that to work.” 

Geralt deflated at that, his entire body slumping forward with the hand gone from his hair. “It’s not enough,” he croaked. 

Vesemir knelt down behind Geralt, setting the leather strap aside and circling one arm around Geralt's chest to pull him flush against him. Geralt’s head tipped to the side, exposing his neck, so pale and vulnerable with his hair pulled up. 

Vesemir placed a kiss on Geralt’s shoulder as he found Geralt’s lower back with his thumb. He pressed hard, right where the kidney was, and Geralt gasped, his body twitching in Vesemir's hold. 

“I thought I told you I would be the one to decide what you deserve.”

Geralt whimpered so softly Vesemir might not have heard it if he weren’t so close. He dug his thumb harder, felt Geralt’s body lock up, his jaw clenching so hard Vesemir heard his teeth grind together. 

“And the truth is, you don’t deserve pain,” Vesemir continued. “But I know you need it, and that’s ok. I can do this for you.” 

He lifted his thumb from the spot to claw his nails down Geralt’s whipped back in a slow, vicious drag that had Geralt choking on a whimper. 

“The truth is that no amount of pain or punishment will reverse what happened. Nothing will truly take away the guilt.” Vesemir spoke softly. “Regret is evidence of a conscience. Grief is proof of heart. You are not a butcher, Geralt.” 

Vesemir pressed his thumb back into Geralt’s kidney, and a sob finally shook loose from the man. Geralt went limp in Vesemir’s hold, a puppet with cut strings, his body shaking through the pain and the release. 

“And acceptance is proof of strength,” Vesemir whispered, placing another feather light kiss on Geralt’s shoulder. He let up on Geralt's back, rubbing a gentle circle over the spot. After a minute, he asked softly, “You have 15 strikes left, would you still like them?” 

Geralt nodded, a breath shaking out of him with a quiet, “Please, sir.” 

Vesemir had to stifle a groan as that title from Geralt's lips whooshed through his gut. “Good boy. You’re taking your punishment beautifully.” 

Geralt whimpered as if the praise hurt him more than the leather. Maybe it did. Vesemir made sure Geralt was steady on his knees before he stood and grabbed the leather strap again. “You still have your word,” he reminded Geralt. “You will not disappoint me if you use it.” 

Geralt just straightening his spine and blew out a shaky breath. 

Vesemir nodded, taking his stance again. “Let’s begin.” 

The strikes came down once again. Vesemir put in just a little bit more force, unable to completely deny Geralt what he wanted, and saw the evidence of it as more pinpricks of blood dotted Geralt’s pale skin. 

This time, Geralt wasn’t quiet. 

His grunts of pain turned into breathy whimpers, then loud cries, then broken, rasping, tearless sobs. By the time the last strike landed across his back, Geralt was shaking, ragged gasps leaving his mouth. 

Vesemir dropped the leather strap and immediately went to him, falling to his knees in front of him and cupping his face in his hands. “It’s over, Wolf. You’re so good. You did so well.”

Geralt whimpered, immediately pushing his face and torso into Vesemir’s welcoming embrace. Vesemir held him tightly, wrapping his arms around the man, letting him sink into the love and comfort Vesemir offered him. He took the tie out of his hair so he could stroke the white locks, murmuring softly to him as long-withheld sobs wracked his body. 

When Geralt’s sobs had cooled to shuddering breaths, Vesemir coaxed him into standing and got him to the bed, where he laid Geralt face down. “Take care of you now,” he murmured, leaning forward and kissing Geralt on his temple. “Not going far, just lay here and wait, I’m right here,” he soothed, giving the Wolf one more stroke through his hair before he straightened and retrieved his medical kit from a nearby shelf. 

He sat down beside Geralt, the bed dipping under their weight, and dug out his jar of medicated salve from the kit. He uncapped it and scooped out a generous amount, the spearmint and pine scent tickling his nose. “This will sting a bit at first,” he warned, then carefully began spreading the paste over Geralt's beaten back. 

Geralt didn’t even flinch, his face pressed into the quilt that covered Vesemir's bed, taking deep inhales. Vesemir smiled, glad to see his scent seemed to calm the wolf. He focused on his work, ensuring that he spread the salve over every welt and bruise, taking far more time than he needed. When he was sure he’d gotten every lash, his skilled fingers continued to slide up and down Geralt's back, pausing to rub out tense muscles. By the time his back was completely covered with the salve, Geralt was a puddle on the bed, all the tension bled right out of him. 

Vesemir simply watched him for a moment, idly skimming his fingers over one unmarred hip. He then plucked the medallion from his belt and gently pressed it into Geralt’s hand. The wolf’s eyes fluttered open to look at the pendant as Vesemir leaned down to nose at the back of his neck, placing a soft kiss there. “Are you ready for your reward, Wolf?” 

Geralt gave a content sigh, closing his eyes again as he ran his thumb over the muzzle of the medallion. 

Vesemir smiled, taking that as a yes. “You have some options,” he murmured. “We could cuddle here for the rest of the day, perhaps I could feed you,” he offered. Geralt didn’t respond, waiting for the next option it seemed. Vesemir trailed his hand down Geralt’s ribs to the muscled swell of his ass, skimming his fingers feather light. “Or we could continue with something more intimate.” 

Geralt’s hips jumped a bit at that, a whine rasping out of his chest, still open and vulnerable from his punishment. 

Vesemir smirked, still lightly running his fingers over Geralt's skin, pulling goosebumps to the surface. “Or we could clean up and get started on chores.” 

Geralt literally growled at that, one golden eye opening and glaring at him. 

Vesemir chuckled, “Option two then.” He gave Geralt another kiss on the nape of his neck, breathing in the scent of his hair. “I have some ideas in mind, but is there anything you want, Wolf?” he asked, keeping his voice low as he nosed at the shell of Geralt's ear. 

Geralt shifted his hips, gasping sweetly at every touch. Vesemir saw him bite his bottom lip, a request sitting on the tip of his tongue like a diver waiting to take the plunge. 

The old wolf kissed at the sensitive skin just behind Geralt's ear, murmuring, “I am at your disposal, my dear wolf. Be a good boy and tell me what you want.” 

Geralt sucked in a breath before his request spilled out from his lips, “Want to suck you.” 

Vesemir's brow ticked up. He certainly wasn’t against the idea, but… “That hardly seems like a reward for you, my pup.” 

Geralt shook his head a bit, nose squished to the side as he pressed his face into the quilt. “Want… want to feel you in my mouth,” he mumbled. “And your… your hands in my hair.” 

The quiet, almost bashful requests had Vesemir's chest aching with fondness. He knew Geralt was a gentle soul, but _fuck_ he was cute like this. "I think I understand,” he whispered as he played with the baby hairs at the nape of Geralt’s neck. “I’m going to undress then, is that ok?” 

Geralt nodded eagerly, glancing up and watching Vesemir with obvious interest. 

Vesemir stood to pull off his tunic and then his undershirt, laying the articles on the end of the bed. He toed off his socks, then rested his hands on the tie of his trousers. 

He paused then, working his next words around in his mouth before speaking them, “Geralt, I need you to trust that I’m enjoying this, and that I am very aroused by you.” 

He glanced up to see Geralt staring at him, a touch of confusion to his otherwise calm features. 

Frankness was Vesemir's first line of defense for things like this, so that’s what he stuck to. “My age has had an effect on my bodily reactions; it can take a long time to erect. I don’t want this to discourage you.” 

“Oh,” Geralt grunted. He nodded after a moment of thought, his cheek rubbing against the quilt. “I understand.” 

Vesemir smiled. “Thank you,” he replied, then pulled the tie loose and let his trousers fall to the floor. 

His cock was still soft, as he’d warned, but Geralt’s eyes raked over him with naked hunger anyway. They’d bathed together before, of course, but this was different. Vesemir couldn’t help a swell of pride as Geralt looked at him with such clear want. It had been a long time since he’d been desired that way, and by one of the most beautiful men on the planet, no less. 

Vesemir approached the bed again, but before he sat down, he pulled some of the plush pillows out from their neat places at the top of the bed. He gently urged Geralt to roll to his side, tucking the pillows long-ways under his body. Geralt gave him a questioning look, but Vesemir just smiled, “Trust me.” 

“I do,” Geralt said, the admission jumping from his loosened lips, far more raw than the teasing note Vesemir had used. 

Vesemir's breath caught. He met those golden eyes, the moment extending in frozen anticipation. Slowly, Vesemir cupped Geralt’s chin in his palm as he leaned in closer, searching his eyes. “May I kiss you?” he whispered. 

Geralt gave a shuddering sigh, staring at Vesemir's lips. “Please,” he rasped. 

Permission granted, Vesemir rushed in to capture those perfect lips in his, slotting their mouths together, kissing him slow and deep. His tongue asked for entrance, which Geralt eagerly gave, parting his lips and sliding his tongue across Vesemir’s as the man explored that hot, wet cavern. They both sank into the kiss, the connection breaking the final wall that had stood between them. Their pairings would undoubtedly explore more sexual ventures, but somehow nothing was more intimate than this. 

Vesemir kissed Geralt until the man was whining and humping the pillow. He parted reluctantly, keeping their noses touching for a moment longer, breathing each other’s hot breaths. “I would kiss you for an entire day,” Vesemir murmured, voice rough with desire. 

Geralt whined, staring up at him with need. “Please…”

Vesemir smiled. “Yes, your reward, of course pup,” he said, giving him one more deep but quick kiss before he moved their positions. 

Vesemir sat against the headboard, using a pillow to prop his back as he spread his legs on either side of Geralt, caging him in between his thighs and leaving his sex open for the man. 

He placed a gentle hand in Geralt’s hair, urging him closer. Geralt scooted up, his gaze fixed on Vesemir's cock like a starving man at a feast. Even soft, Vesemir wouldn’t say he was small. It would still be a mouthful, one he hoped Geralt could enjoy. 

Geralt was close enough that Vesemir could feel his breath on his skin, and he had to reign in his lust. He had a feeling he could easily take control if he wanted, direct Geralt to a more conventional sexual encounter. But ‘conventional’ wasn’t something Vesemir wasted time on at his age. And besides, this was for Geralt more than it was for him. 

Geralt glanced up, unsure, and Vesemir gave him a soft smile. “Go ahead, my sweet boy, take your reward however you like.” 

Geralt’s cheeks pinkened, eyes fluttering at the praise, letting himself enjoy it now. He took a deep breath in as he slowly pressed his face up against the hot skin of Vesemir's cock and balls, nuzzling against him as he inhaled his scent with a soft moan.   
A full body shiver went through Vesemir at the contact. He sighed in pleasure, cradling Geralt’s head as Geralt nuzzled him. 

“You smell good,” Geralt murmured, his lids lowered until just the barest slits of gold showed. 

Vesemir chuckled softly. “I’m glad you think so.”

Geralt looked stunning stretched out before him, nosing comfortably at his groin, not an ounce of shame to him. Even his beaten back, red and shiny from the salve, was beautiful. The evidence of Geralt's strength, his submission and his acceptance. The ugly demon of guilt would undoubtedly rise again, but for now they'd defeated it. 

When Geralt’s lips found his cock, Vesemir ran his hand luxuriously over the man’s hair, gently scratching his nails down his scalp. He smiled as Geralt’s eyes rolled in response to the attention, his breath puffing through his nose and tickling over Vesemir’s groin. 

Geralt started to bob his head up and down, sucking at the soft member, and while it was nice, Vesemir carefully held onto his hair to still his movements. “Easy, pup, no need to perform for me,” he rumbled, petting his hand over Geralt’s white hair as the man looked up at him questioningly. Vesemir gave him loving smile. “I would like you to simply relax and let yourself feel good.” 

Geralt blinked up at him, but slowly lowered his head down to rest his cheek against Vesemir’s inner thigh, gently suckling. His body relaxed into the cushy pillows and after a moment, he slid his arms back up around Vesemir’s hips like they’d done at the beginning. 

Vesemir relaxed with him, enjoying the wet warmth surrounding his cock, but he enjoyed watching Geralt more. He did as promised, bringing his other hand up to spread all ten fingers down his scalp, reaching lower to rub and massage his neck and shoulders too. 

Geralt moaned around his cock and Vesemir gasped as it vibrated up his entire body. “That’s it,” he said, voice low and rough. “My good boy, my strong wolf. You’re so perfect, so lovely, relaxing here for me.”   
The words flowed easily from Vesemir’s lips in the same way he spoke to Lambert, but Geralt seemed to respond to the praise even stronger than Lambert did. He whined around Vesemir’s member, head tipped against his thigh as his hips began to work his own cock into the pillow underneath him. 

Vesemir smiled, keeping his own body calm and still, not letting himself thrust or rock into Geralt’s mouth. He wanted to let Geralt use him how he wanted, how he needed. That was truly what brought Vesemir the most pleasure. “You’re doing wonderfully, my perfect boy,” he murmured. “Make yourself feel good. Does the pillow feel nice?” 

Geralt nodded, shivering and moaning as his hips moved, his pert ass clenching with each thrust. Those golden eyes opened again and looked up at Vesemir, silently asking for more, for guidance. 

“Good, that’s so good,” Vesemir rambled. “Love seeing you like this. Love your body, so strong and perfect.” He pulled his fingers back up Geralt’s scalp, mussing his hair, making him look even more disheveled. “Come whenever you want, my perfect Wolf. Come with my scent and my voice and my taste. I want your scent on my pillow. I want it to mix with mine. I want the essence of you to soak into the threads so that I’ll always smell you.”

Geralt whined around his cock, his hips working harder into the pillow, his muscled arms clenching around Vesemir as he pushed closer and closer to his edge. He looked up at Vesemir with absolute adoration pouring from those stunning golden eyes, looking at him as if he’d never truly seen him before. 

“So proud of you, my beautiful boy. I love you so much, Geralt,” Vesemir breathed, not caring if the words were too much; they were the truth. 

Geralt squeezed his eyes shut and gave his loudest moan yet as his body crested. He shoved his nose into Vesemir’s sex as his arms pulled him in tight. His hips twitched and bucked into the pillow, grinding down with single-minded intent. The scent of Geralt’s seed bloomed in cozy confines of Vesemir’s room, and Vesemir breathed it in, wishing he could preserve it forever. Salt and musk and something so uniquely Geralt; Vesemir would bottle it if he could. 

Geralt slowly came back down, his body melting into a puddle between Vesemir’s legs. He kept his mouth on Vesemir’s cock, eyes closed as his breath evened out. It was hardly sexual at this point, even though Geralt’s mouth was on his genitals. It was pure bliss.

Vesemir fell quiet, letting them both float in the afterglow, letting Geralt rest. He pet broad, soothing strokes down Geralt’s head, smoothing his hair back down. 

They drifted for an indeterminate time. Maybe an hour, but Vesemir didn’t bother to keep track. He let his head rest back on the headboard and simply enjoyed the present moment. His heart felt full for the first time in a long while, having finally crossed into the intimate space he’d always craved to have with Geralt. They had problems to deal with, of course, but nothing could ruin this. Tomorrow’s troubles would wait for them. For now, he had his Wolf. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Golden Oriole=turns poison into healing  
> Swallow=straight up healing  
> White Honey=ends all active potion effects (including toxicity) 
> 
> Next will probably be Eskel if Lambert and Geralt aren't too needy.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Yell at me over at introvertedlionprince on tumblr.


End file.
